


Nevantide

by Moonsheen



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Backstory, Coming of Age, Dancing, F/M, Fake Demon Catholic Holidays, Found Family, Mission Fic, Pre-Canon, Pre-DMC4, Resolved Sexual Tension, Teen Romance, Very stupid DMC3 references, Worldbuilding, stupid kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 19:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19933144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonsheen/pseuds/Moonsheen
Summary: It wasn’t that Nero didn’t like Kyrie. Actually, he liked her way more than was probably appropriate given her family had fostered him since he was eight. That was an ongoing problem.The more immediate problem was that Nero was fifteen, had just agreed to go to a holy festival with the sister of the Supreme General of the Holy Knights, and he had no idea how to dance.





	Nevantide

“Nero. I need you to ask me to Nevantide,” said Kyrie, when they were fifteen and this was still a loaded question.

Nero nearly smashed his hand hammering a dent out of his sword. He’d been hanging around the munitions workshop allowed to Order cadets, checking his gear. He hadn’t heard her come in. He jumped, shaking out his hand and biting back some choice swear words.

He swiped oil off of his nose. “What?” Nevantide was a big party they held at Fortuna Castle every year in late February. “Why.”   


Kyrie waited patiently at the garage door, her jaw set in that stubborn-but-trying-to-be-polite-about-it way.   


“Because men ask women to Nevantide,” she said. “It’s traditional.”

“Yeah to like, dance and shhhhh-things,” grumbled Nero, trying not to stare too much at the way the sun filtered through her hair. Had it always been that red? Crap. He went back to stooping over his anvil. “Aren’t you going with the choir? You’re part of the service right?”

“I am.”

“So what do you need a  _ date  _ for?”   


Kyrie blushed. Nero regretted asking, because he blushed, too. He glared into his anvil, and tried not to think about how completely he’d played himself.   


“The services are just at sundown,” she said, “and the late-night service is at midnight, and you  _ know  _ what they’ll say. It’s inappropriate for a young woman of good standing to go unattended on a night of such… liberties.”  


Dancing and drinking. St. Nevan was said to be one of Sparda’s original commanders. She’d symbolized a love of freedom and festivals. Whatever that meant.

“So follow Credo around. He’ll stop anyone dead in their tracks.”

“He will be holding vigil, Nero,” said Kyrie. “You know that.”

Holy Knights were supposed to keep an eye out for ‘holy revelations.’ Whatever  _ that  _ meant.

“Yeah, and I’m supposed to be security detail,” said Nero, who actually was told he would be on perimeter patrol. He’d been expressly instructed not to go near either the main hall or any candles or other flammable objects at any point in the night. You burn down one warehouse when you were twelve and suddenly you’re the guy who burns things. “C’mon, Kyrie. Since when do I count as a good chaperone? You know half of the Who’s-Who of Fortuna hates my guts, right? And by the way, that fire in the bell tower was not my fault if any one of them ever actually bothered to read the official report which  _ completely  _ exonerated me.”   


“I want it to be you, Nero,” said Kyrie, simply.

That stopped Nero dead in his tracks. Credo had that Look. Kyrie had one of her own. Nero found himself staring down the barrel at it, completely paralyzed. Helpless. Way more turned on than he wanted to be.   


“Because if it isn’t you,” said Kyrie, with a steady gaze only the truly desperate possessed, “Corso Spardini is going to ask me instead.”

“Corso.”

“Yes.”   
  
“The duke’s son.”

“Yes.”

“As in…”   


“The one who tried to grab my ass last Feast of Cerberus,” Kyrie finished for him.

It was Nero’s turn to stare. He wasn’t sure he’d heard that right. “Kyrie?!”

“I don’t like him very much,” said Kyrie, with a bland smile.   


For a minute they just looked at each other in a surreal silence.

Kyrie broke it with a sigh. “But The Order of the Sword is sworn to protect the Duke’s line, as they serve in proxy of the Savior, the first lord of the castle. The Order meaning the knights, especially. That means Credo, by the way. Credo.”

Nero ran his hand back through his hair. “So Credo’s gotta play nice with him as Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights. Well, that’s…” Bullshit. “Stupid.”

“I don’t have to say no if I already have someone,” said Kyrie, “and since you’re Credo’s squire…”

“That sounds really weird when you say it out loud.”

“It would be considered socially acceptable for me to gracefully decline,” said Kyrie.

“You know this is ridiculous, right? You should be allowed to say no, right?”   


“Yes and also yes,” said Kyrie.   


“And you know the duke’s just a puppet for the Order, right?”

“I know, Nero,” said Kyrie, “and if you would like to tell him that yourself, I’d appreciate it.”   


“Man,” said Nero. “ _ Fuck _ that guy. All right, Kyrie. Wanna go to Nevantide with me?”   


Kyrie threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. She held on a little longer than maybe she should have. Nero tried not to think about that too hard. He failed miserably.   


Shit. 

* * *

Nero marched across the bridge, headphones blazing. A couple of Order initiates gave him filthy looks as he passed, but he flashed his ring and the finger and they let him through.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered as we went. “Fucking Sparda on a fucking cracker. What the hell did you even just agree to.”   


It wasn’t that Nero didn’t like Kyrie. Actually, he liked her way more than was probably appropriate given her family had fostered him since he was eight. That was an ongoing problem.   


The more immediate problem was that Nero was fifteen, had just agreed to go to a holy festival with the sister of the Supreme General of the Holy Knights, and he had no idea how to dance.   


Also, he’d just agreed to go to a holy festival with the sister of the Supreme General.

“Well, I’m just screwed,” sighed Nero, as he reached the office of the Supreme General himself, unhooked his headphones from his ears, straightened up, and knocked on the cracked door.

“Yo, Credo.”

Credo sat in his desk, reviewing mission reports. He looked up as the teenager wormed his way in past the exasperated sentries. The guards didn’t try to cross their lances in front of Nero. They’d learned their lesson from the last time they’d tried. 

“That is not an appropriate term of address,” said Credo. 

“Yo, Credo, sir…?” tried Nero. 

Credo let out a breath and laid the current report across the desk.

“It’s rare for you to report to HQ voluntarily,” said Credo. “What is the situation?’

“Nothing,” said Nero. If nothing didn’t mean the dumbest thing he’d ever agreed to. Fuuuuuuck. “I mean. Uh, nothing to report? You coming home tonight?” 

“My official lodgings can be found in the Order barracks,” Credo reminded him. He’d officially moved in following his promotion, just a year ago.

“Yeah, but should we expect you for dinner?” 

“You can tell Kyrie I’ll be late,” said Credo, with a faint softening around his mouth. Well. At least it wouldn’t be too bizarre a segue. Credo gave him a puzzled look. “What’s all this about?”

Maybe he’d just say no. He’d say no. Nero would have to tell Kyrie, and then Kyrie would look disappointed, and … Nevermind, that was worse. 

Ah, hell. Nero preferred to take things head on, anyway. “I need you to release me from Castle Security for the Nevantide services.”

Credo’s lips pulled tight. “You requested that position.”

The exact words were ‘Put me anywhere except that goddamn vigil.’ 

“Turns out I need the time.”

“And you need it because?”

“Because I’m taking Kyrie to the dance,” Nero burst out. He squared his shoulders and met Credo’s eyes like, ‘Yeah, I just said that. What of it?’

But to his surprise, after a long silence, Credo just ‘hrm’ed and nodded.

“I see,” said Credo. He moved the reports to the side of the desk and pulled another sheet out of the drawer, making a few quick notes on it. “That makes sense. Leave granted. I’ll pull Dulcis off of harbor watch.”

The paper vanished again as quick as it had appeared. The whole process all in all had taken less than a minute, which had to be the fastest the Order ever processed anything -- but Credo had made a point of streamlining some things since he’d taken the promotion.

“What,” said Nero.

“It’s a reasonable request. She’ll be there with the choir. You report directly to me.” Credo, like Nero, never liked calling Nero his squire. The official rank never sat right with either of them. “My duties prevent me from escorting her myself. It’s an elegant solution. I assume she came up with it.”

“I mean, yeah, but…” Nero was now stuck. All nervous energy that had nowhere to go. For a bit he flailed around for answers -- until it dawned on him like a crackle of holy water. “...an ‘elegant solution.’ So you knew that jackass Corso wanted to pull rank on her.”

“That ‘jackass’ is the son of your liege lord,” said Credo.

“I didn’t vote for him,” said Nero, but he shrank under the chilly gaze Credo gave him for that one.   


Everyone knew the Dukes of Fortuna were more a tourist attraction. The Holy Order had run everything in Fortuna for the last 200 years. Everyone knew they weren’t descendants of Sparda, no matter how many horns they put on their coat of arms That didn’t mean you were allowed to say it, though.

“You are a member of the Holy Knights,” said Credo, the way he had the day he’d actually sworn Nero into the Order -- in his office, because the chapel had been closed for renovations that summer. “No matter what reason you took up the sword, it is your duty to use it protect Fortuna and its people, and that includes the family the Savior placed in stewardship over the castle, as well.”

“I got it, I got it! Don’t have to quote the whole book at me!” Besides whenever Credo got into it, it got really hard not to almost believe it. “But you agree the guy’s an asshole, right?”

“I want Kyrie to have a good evening,” said Credo, simply.

“That’s not a no.”   


“ _ Don’t _ embarrass her.”   


Nero’s face fell.

“...Right.” That frayed bit at the edge of his jacket suddenly got real interesting. “So. Um. About that.”

* * *

It was close to dusk when Nero carried the stock Durandal case out into the closed courtyard of the castle villa reserved for training. Over the course of his time in the Order, Nero had spent many hours in that courtyard -- mostly getting his ass handed to him repeatedly by Credo. Credo showed him how to hold a sword, how to stand, where to find an enemy opening, and where not to charge in like a lunatic and get himself thrown into the dirt. He showed him that last part more than anything else. Nero wondered how many skinned knees he’d get out of this particular request.

Credo waited on the far end of the yard, his hands behind his back.

“Why did you bring the sword?” he asked, as he turned. He was in his parade uniform, but that was nothing knew. Credo was well aware as the youngest General in the history of the Order, he really had to look the part. It worked a little better than Nero wanted to admit.   


Nero threw the case down near the wall and wondered what would be worse: the humiliation of what he was about to try, or Kyrie’s disappointed face when he told her he couldn’t do it.   


...No contest.   


“‘Cause it’d be weird for me to head out here without one? I don’t need the old church ladies poking around my business any more than they already do.”

“Self-consciousness will hold you back.”

“I’m going to a dance, not a tournament,” Nero pointed out.

“This kind of event is the same idea.”

“Seriously?”

“Dancing used to be one of the training requirements under Vicar Benedicto.”

“And I thought they just taught you because the Duchess kept pulling you for bodyguard duty.” The Duchess’ particular fondness for Credo was something a running joke with the rest of the Order. He was an infamous hit with her and her particular circle of ladies, always on the prowl. ‘Easy on the eyes,’ in her words.

Credo paused. “That might have been part of it,” he admitted, with a sour expression. His complete stoic resistance to her advances was another one of those legends in the Order. His promotion hadn’t completely banished those jokes from the barracks.   


But there wasn’t much of a difference, Credo explained, between fighting and dancing. Nero tried to scoff, until Credo took a lunge at him with his sheathed sword and Nero found himself squaring his feet to block instinctually.

“Almost,” said Credo, and then jammed the sheath into his calf. Nero yelped, but he moved his foot where it was supposed to go.

“What, you going to beat this out of me too?!”   


“If I have to. Now hold out your hand.”

“Why?” Nero eyed him warily.

“The gentleman always asks, first.”

“I’m a gentleman now?”

“With Kyrie? You’d better be.”   


Nero swallowed. “Point.”

Nero stuck out his hand. Credo pinched the bridge of his nose.   


“In a way that doesn’t look like you’ve just tried to sucker punch them?”   
  
Nero sighed and tried again, this time he gave it a few extra twirls, just because. “My lady,” he said, between his teeth.

His lady had a beard and looked resigned to his fate.

“It’s a start. Here.”

Credo grabbed his hand and yanked him eye to eye with him.   


“Woah,” said Nero, more breathless than he wanted to admit. It was the first time Nero noticed he had to look down at Credo, just a little. When had he gotten taller than him?

“You hold one hand out to here.” Credo demonstrated by extending Nero’s left hand out to the side. “And the other goes against the small of her back.”

“Like this?”

Credo’s gaze went particularly steely. “Her  _ back _ , Nero.”   


Welp. “Right.”

Credo mercifully let him go and stepped away. “Let’s try this the other way around.”   
  
“I’m the lady now?”   
  
“Until you know what you’re doing? Yes. Now.”    


Credo held out his hand. He did with a casual grace that somehow didn’t look as silly as Nero had thought it would. Nero eyed his hand warily, but took it. Credo’s hands folded around his like a sprung trap and gave a firm tug. It wasn’t hard, but Nero was so startled he nearly stumbled against him. Credo took a few deft steps and held him up by his hand. It did look a little bit like fencing footwork, not that Nero thought about it…

“Eyes on the target, Nero.”

...and not unlike the mistake Nero made a thousand times in training. He dragged his eyes up.   


“Put your hand on my shoulder.”   


Nero did.   


“Not,” said Credo, with hiss, “like you’re trying to throw me across the courtyard?”   


Nero loosened up as best he could. It wasn’t easy. He kept staring at his hand.   


“And look at me.”   


Nero looked. Credo placed one hand firmly over the small of Nero’s back. Nero straightened instinctively, suddenly completely aware of the fact he was entirely under Credo’s control. Warmth prickled up and down his spine.   


“Woah.” It felt weird, but also kind of nice. Like he was protected, or some shit.   


Nero learned something about himself that day. 

* * *

One, two, three. One, two, three.

“Something tells me Saint Nevan probably would’ve preferred music a little more lively? I know they call her the Savior’s Violin, but I thought fiddle music was the kind of thing you could tap to.”

“Drill it,” Credo told Nero. “Be as dedicated as you would be to a sword exercise.”

Credo’s knowing emphasis on the word ‘sword’ had Nero wondering if he’d found the gun magazine under his bed, but for whatever reason he let Nero go.

Nero took it to heart. He practiced in his cell whenever he had a spare minute. The barracks for the Holy Knights were built out of an old monastery just outside of HQ. Most of the historic facade had been replaced by the cold white Vicar Sanctus preferred, but the inside had stayed true to a different kind of starkness. Monastic cells lined the curved halls, small rooms mostly occupied by a bed, a chair, and a tiny desk fitted under a slitted window. Nero occupied the end cell in the mostly abandoned second floor west hallway, not because the other squires hated that he’d been allowed to join them (though they did), but because he’d managed to buy a contraband amp and electric guitar with his first month’s stipend and the old stone halls had  _ amazing  _ acoustics.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Well, the rest of the wannabe monks would have a nice break. Nero kept the door shut during this kind of practice. He didn’t have any really good classical music records, so he used the cassette rip he’d gotten from the last recital Kyrie’d been in. It almost worked.

One, two, three.

He didn’t hear the knock on the door.

One, two….

“Um, Nero? I was wondering if you’d like to…”   
  
Nero dove across the bed to jam his hand across the battered Walkman.

“KYRIE IT IS NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE.”

Kyrie stared at him, owl-eyed through the crack in his door.

“What does it look like?” she asked.

The Walkman tipped onto its side and rolled down the crack between the wall and the bed, leaving Nero was half sprawled, stomach down across the sheets, one foot on the ground and one hand in mid-air.   


Nero rolled over and pulled himself up.

“I don’t actually know.”

* * *

“Credo? That makes sense.”   
  
“Does it.”   
  
“It was part of his cadet training. Before…” Before Nero came to live with them. “A long time ago.”

“You knew about that?”   
  
“Some. He didn’t like to talk about it.”   
  
“That sounds like him.”

The nuns in the cloisters had made extra cakes. Kyrie had brought some extras. They walked out to the bridge overlooking Mitis Forest to eat them, sitting themselves on the bridge over the river. They were close enough to the guard line they didn’t have to worry about any stray demons. Everyone knew you had to go out past the trial ground to really start worrying. Nero didn’t look at Kyrie the whole time. It wasn’t just that he was embarrassed to have been caught. He had been caught, and he was embarrassed-- but Kyrie was winter coat he’d bought her from the import store last Feast of Cerberus. She looked really good in it. Really good. He didn’t want her to catch him staring.

“I don’t mind,” she said. “I think it’s sweet.”   


“What? Credo throwing me around the training yard and calling it a waltz?”

“You learning how to dance,” said Kyrie.   


Nero glared into his cake. “I know how to dance  _ now _ .” Sort of. He was working on it.   


“I’m glad,” said Kyrie, daintily picking the crumbs off of her gloves. She popped a couple in her mouth. Nero really had to try not to stare at that. “Because, I don’t. Not really, anyway.”

“Seriously?” Nero did look up at her then. “But you’re in the choir--”

“We sing, we don’t dance,” said Kyrie. “Not like you’re supposed at Nevantide, anyway. It’s one of the… mm. How did Sister Domina put it? More ‘earthly’ holidays, practically Mundean, she said.” 

“So it’s just woo in a different way?”

Kyrie gave him that look, the one she always gave him when he veered dangerously close to outright blasphemy.

“Sorry,” said Nero, before he verged too far into complaining about pretendy Sparda BS. “I just kinda figured you would know. You’re always pretty good at this kind of thing.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, you’re always so…” He grasped at the words. Angelic? Beautiful? The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen? Oh goddamnit. He wasn’t saying that. She’d think he was some perv, not her family’s fosterling. “...Perfect in your concerts and sh--stuff.” Nero leaned self consciously against the bridge. “You make it look easy?’   
  
“Thank you,” said Kyrie, flushing. “It’s not. Easy, I mean. I’m always so nervous going into those things... it only goes away once I’m doing it. Then it feels -- well. I don’t have to think, because I’m doing it. But it takes a lot of practice to get there.”

“Guess so,” said Nero, sullenly. It took a lot of Credo barking at him while he spun him, too.   


“I wouldn’t mind practicing with you.”   


“What?” Nero coughed on his crumbs. Kyrie was watching him through her eyelashes. It was supposed to look shy. It looked almost sultry. Nero nearly fell backwards into the goddamn river.   


Kyrie chewed at her bottom lip. “That’s the fastest way to get better at it, right? And it works better if it’s with the person you want to do it with, too. Don’t worry. I’d be gentler with you than Credo.”

Nero’s mind went completely blank for a full five seconds.   


“Uh,” said Nero. He remembered to swallow. He also remembered Kyrie was currently living in the cloisters and definitely would not mean that the way it sounded. Definitely. “It was supposed to be a surprise,” he managed lamely.

“It’s not anymore, is it?”   
  
“Guess not,” said Nero, desolately.

“So let’s just have fun,” said Kyrie, brightening. She moved to the center of the bridge, and curtsied, all elegant. That she’d learned in school. Then she held out her hand. “Shall we dance?”

“That’s supposed to be my line!”

“So say it,” challenged Kyrie.

“All right, all right,” said Nero. “But if I step on your foot, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

* * *

Nero had to admit, Nevantide was one of the more colorful of the prescribed Order Holidays. They’d done the great hall up in reds and purples. Violet curtains spilled from the ceiling to the floor. The great table, moved to the side to allow space for the orchestra and the dancing, was swathed in a red satin table cloth.   


Nero tugged awkwardly at his collar. He hated wearing the Order uniform. The dress uniform had arrived that morning, freshly tailored, all of his measurements perfectly updated to his last growth spurt. Credo had missed no details to it. It had the optional cloak, care instructions, a formal list of standing decorum for the evening, and a stern personal note:

“No substitutions.”   


Nero popped the clasp and the top three fasteners, then he spent a full five minutes glaring at himself in the mirror. A skinny ghost glared back, washed out in the official white and gold. His skin looked paler. His ears looked pinker. Even his eyes seemed more pale green than normal. No one in Fortuna had eyes like that. No one in Fortuna under sixty had silver hair, either. And boy did the look not help with  _ that _ , either. He tugged at his bangs more self consciously than he meant.

Fine. Less they saw the better. Gritting his teeth, he pushed it back. When it didn’t stay, he dug out some gel and pushed it back more. It didn’t improve the look any. Now he looked like a ghost with a stick up his ass.

“Things I do for…” What, exactly? “Goddamnit, Credo.”   


Maybe Kyrie would like it.

Credo said nothing when he entered the main hall. He didn’t have the opportunity. The high table consisted of the Duke of Fortuna, his family, and Sanctus. All the VIPs in one spot. Nero noticed that Sanctus had staked out the fanciest chair at the end of the table. Credo, who must’ve been gritting his teeth at having this many high prominent targets so easily accessible, stood behind Sanctus, slightly to the left. He held his arms behind his back, stared resolutely ahead, and patently ignored the little winks the Duchess kept trying to sneak him. When Nero came into his field of view, he raised an eyebrow, but nodded stiffly. Nero, who’d five years of translating those kinds of looks, gave a non-committal turn of his hand in answer.

‘Not bad. Don’t mess this up.’

‘Hey, be glad I didn’t turn up bareass naked. You didn’t say I couldn’t do  _ that _ .’

Nero hoped that’s what he got across, anyway.

Nero tried to look as official and anonymous as possible as he staked out a place near the choir benches. It didn’t work. Eyes followed him as he wove through the crowd. A few of the guests shuffled quickly out of his way. Half of them didn’t know who he was -- he was fifteen, and a new recruit besides -- but with his hair back, his uniform, and his most recent growth spurt, he looked a few years older… and still five shades paler than anyone else there.   


To hell with them, anyway. Nero grabbed a drink off of one of the drifting hors d'oeuvre trays, found one of the nearest sculptures they’d dragged into the hall for decoration, leaned against the base, ate the olive first, and glared at anyone who had the nerve to give him the stink eye.   


Then the choir filed in and Nero nearly dropped his drink.

He’d forgotten that the traditional colors for a Nevantide service were, contrary to what you’d guess from such a festive occasion, black. All of the choristers wore it. The kids in the front row, in their little poofy frocks. The choir master in the front, the steel-haired Sister Jubilea, in a variation of her nun’s habit. The young soloists who made up the center row -- Kyrie among them. She wore a flowing black dress -- the old-fashioned kind, that hid her ankles and cinched at her waist. The top half was obscured by a black lace half-cloak, one that was patterned to look like a thousand interlocking wings. She had a little red choker around her neck. Her hair was tied into a tight bun, with a plain black hair band holding it back. The other choristers were dressed identically. It should’ve made her look fussy and old.

What it did was emphasize every inch of her silhouette. What it did was bring out all the red in her hair. When she kept her eyes low as she waited for her cue, the candle light made her face  _ glow _ . When the music started, and she clasped her hands together, the shifting shawl gave them an added grace. He’d seen her do that a million times in Church. Nothing about it should’ve made him stare. But he stared now.

She’d even done her nails. They looked even and perfect.   


Then she lifted her head and sang.   


Nero’s drink went untouched for the whole rest of the set.   
  


* * *

The Duke thanked the choir. Sanctus led the congregation in more prayer, before formally withdrawing to the castle chapel, where he would lead the ‘private vigil’ and await the supposed miracle that everyone knew probably meant he was going to take a nice nap under some frescos.

Credo made a gesture. His chosen elite snapped to attention around Sanctus in unison. They marched him through the double doors and into the castle back halls. Their boots snapped in time. Half of them fell in behind Sanctus as he passed, forming a shoulder to shoulder wall of white and gold, almost hiding his dopey hat.

It was, Nero had to admit, a little like dancing.   


“I thought I saw you there,” said Kyrie. “You  _ did  _ come.”

Nero felt her before he saw her. Her hand touched the back of his arm and he jolted, nearly falling out of his artful lean as he turned to face her.   


“What? Thought I’d chicken out?”   


“No,” said Kyrie, smiling up at him. “But Credo wasn’t sure. He said I was asking a lot from you. He asked me to be gentle with you.”   


The half-cloak was a fragile relic. She’d returned it to the box before she’d come to join him. The dress, he discovered then, was one of those super old ones with the wide square collar. A wide square collar that showed way more of her neck and collarbone then he was used to seeing. Whatever era it belonged in, it was now Kyrie’s era. Nero stood a little taller and cleared his throat.   


“Always the optimist,” said Nero. “You were great, by the way. They should’ve just let you do the whole thing.”

This time Kyrie turned red and looked away.

“Thank you,” she stumbled, folding her hand close to her chest. And he would not look at that. He would not look at that. He would absolutely not look at that. He held out his arm. He’d long left his drink up among the statue’s stone flowers.   


“Shall we?” he said, grinning.

“Oh, yes,” said Kyrie, taking it.   


‘Thank god,’ thought Nero. And somehow he got the feeling she was thinking the exact same thing. 

* * *

Corso Spardini, His Eminent Jackass, did not waste any time proving himself the Lord of Douchelandia.   


“Ah, Kyrie! Beautiful Kyrie!” he said, swinging to them, awash in the gaudiest red and purple waistcoat imaginable. “You have the voice of an angel! And the face to match! Saint Nevan herself would have wept should she have heard you, I am sure!”

“My lord is too kind,” said Kyrie. Nero felt her fingers tighten on his arm.

Corso Spardini did not have the grace to look like a toad. In fact, he was the perfect prince by Fortuna standards. Or even by most standards. Dark haired, a healthy olive complexion, sparkling black-brown eyes, and really nice teeth. He was just clearly the worst of puberty. He’d covered up his zits in a layer of expensive foundation, and he hid his puppy fat under a layer of muscle that had been perfectly sculpted not from missions and training drills, but from having a personal gym. He was short and broad, but in a stocky, athletic kind of way. He even wore the waistcoat well. Despite the stupidity of the colors, they suited his complexion perfectly. They’d probably been picked out personally. He’d probably used color swatches.

He also looked so completely overwhelmingly floral and human Nero couldn’t imagine how anyone could even pretend to believe he was the descendant of some made-up God.

“Hey, Corso,” said Nero, putting an arm around Kyrie. She made a weird sound at that. He hoped he hadn’t accidentally brushed her skin. He tried to keep his touch light and appropriate. “Long time no see. You’re looking… pretty purple tonight.”

“...Nero!” whistled Corso. To his credit, he’d actually remembered his name. He blinked rapidly, then smiled even wider. “That’s right! Nero! You are Sir Credo’s Squire now, are you not?”

“That’s a word for it,” said Nero. “You still a Marquess?”   


“So long as my father continues to live a long and happy life,” grinned Corso. Then he tried to elbow Nero in the stomach conspiratorally. He really liked touching people. A lot. Nero’s hand shot out before he thought about it. He took Corso’s hand and set it back next to him.

“He is so funny,” said Corso, to Kyrie. “Isn’t he funny?”

“Ha, ha,” said Nero. “Still here.”

Corso looked right past him. “Ah, Kyrie, my beautiful Kyrie. You must dance with me. I must insist.”

Kyrie was more graceful at outstepping the grasping gloved hands. She’d had practice. She pressed herself near Nero, and beamed winningly.

“My lord honors me,” she said, “but Nero is my escort for this evening.”   


Corso’s grabby hand hung where her waist had been a moment ago. Corso’s face fell. It made him look like a very sad underwear model. “No! You don’t say!”   


“But I do, my lord,” said Kyrie, demurely. She stepped a little closer into Nero. Nero couldn’t help but notice she got way more formal when she was annoyed. “He is a fine knight. Most trusted by myself and by my brother.”

“Just saying, I’ll be here all night,” added Nero.

Corso sighed. He managed to do it, somehow, with his whole body.

“Oh, no, that can’t be,” he declared. “How absolutely tragic. But Kyrie, you must honor me with one dance! Or at least your hand! So that I may kiss the hand of such a beautiful, divine young flower. One whom has begun to bloom so readily! Truly--”

Nero stepped between them before the metaphors could be so mixed.

“I’ll dance with you,” said Nero. “Since you’re so eager to step out there.”

“Nero,” began Kyrie.

Corso looked up at him. He almost seemed to consider it.

“Eh,” he said. “You seem as though you may be a bit more… continental.”

“Now,  _ whatever  _ do you mean by that,” trilled Nero.   


“Ah, Kyrie,” said Corso, recovering. “Please, I hope you have the most magnificent night. It is so kind of your brother to take such care with you. Such familial devotion is. So. Inspiring.”

“I’ll let him know,” said Kyrie.

“Oh, and Credo, too. Of course, of course.”

And with that last dig, Corso went off to bother some of the serving maids, leaving Nero grinding his teeth.

“You know,” said Nero, airily. “Could just deck him.”

“Nero.”   


“He survived it the last time.”

“Politics, Nero,” Kyrie reminded him. The rest of the sentence sunk in. “.... _ The last time _ ?”

Oh. Right.   


“He joined the cadets in the training yard a couple of years ago,” mumbled Nero. Show of arms. Typical kind of PR stunt. An alleged descendant of Sparda was supposed to know how to fight, after all. “...No one  _ told  _ me I had to pull my punches.”

“Oh, Nero.” But somehow Kyrie just held onto his arm tighter. “Thank you for not punching him just now.”

“I do take requests.”

“I’ll think about it if he tries to cut in again,” said Kyrie.

“You’re amazing,” Nero blurted out. Kyrie’s eyes went wide. They both realized what he said. “I mean. You look amazing.”

Wait. Shit. That was worse. Kyrie giggled in pure reaction.

“I’m wearing a dress that’s probably been worn by nuns for the last century,” she said. “ _ You _ look amazing.”

She reached up to tweak his lapel. Nero shifted uncomfortably.   


“In  _ this  _ thing? Man, Kyrie, you need your eyes checked. I look like a stiff.”

“A  _ handsome  _ stiff,” said Kyrie, flicking one of his buttons.

“Uh,” said Nero.

“Oh,” said Kyrie.

They looked at each other.

“Shall we dance?” asked Nero, in a halting voice. He stepped back and held out his hand.

“Yes,” said Kyrie. She took it.

* * *

Nevantide was a holiday for dancing. The ballroom was full of couples. Order members and their spouses. The guy who owned the hotel and his latest mistress. Some of the tittering old ladies and their husbands. To be honest, Nero lost track after a bit, because, despite the strange looks they got, despite the whispers of, ‘Nero? That Nero?' all he concentrated on was Kyrie.

It was a thrill not unlike a good fight. Stakes were up there, too. Like hell he was going to spin her the wrong way, like he did the first time they practiced. Or accidentally trip over his coat, like he did the second time. She didn’t yank his shoulder down so hard he had to stoop, like she did the second time, or accidentally clonk her head into his chin, like the third. When he stepped back, her toe followed his. When he stepped forward, she gave him space -- and when he spun her around, she just leaned back into his arm and giggled, and even he had to admit to grinning like an idiot by the end of it.

And his hand never, ever strayed from the small of her back.   


Eat that, Fortuna elite.

“Dunno,” he said. “Think we’re impressing anyone?”

“I don’t care,” said Kyrie. “This is fun!”   


“Know what’d be more fun?” asked Nero.

Kyrie read the glint in his eye. “What’s that?” she asked, in a conspiratorial whisper.

Nero waited until they were close to the nearest gaggle of grandmas before he dipped her. “Oh, my word!” huffed a woman he  _ definitely  _ hoped was Sister Domina.

After that set they sought out the drinks table, breathless and proud of themselves.

“Well done, well done,” said Corso, lying in wait. He’d found a dance partner after all, one of Kyrie’s choirmates, a sharp-eyed brunette who eyed them with her own brand of smug satisfaction at her own catch. “You two have put on quite the show. Truly, you are the belle of the ball. If we were naming a queen, I would crown you.”   


“Thank you, my lord,” said Kyrie. She immediately abandoned reaching across the table to back into Nero, keeping a careful distance from Corso, who now had a flush in his cheeks to match his ridiculous coat. Nero eyed those grabby hands and that leering smile and weighed dumping his glass over his head.   


“But truly, that which shines bright illuminates even the darkest of places,” mused Corso.   


“Why, my lord,” said Kyrie. Her eyes hardened. The hand in Nero’s went alarmingly slack. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Uh, Kyrie,” started Nero, quickly, but Corso, that dumbass, not seeing the danger, continued unabated.

“Just that you improve everything with your presence,” said Corso. “The ambiance. The wine. Your choice in partners.”

“Nero is an excellent dancer,” said Kyrie.

“That is what makes you so noble,” said Corso. “You see good in all things.”

“Ah,” said Kyrie.

She reached for a glass after all.   


And somehow just so happened to slip and bring her arm across the ladle. She reached out to rebalance herself, caught the edge of the punchbowl, and upended the whole thing right across the front of Corso Spardini’s expensive purple coat.   


Glasses shattered on the stone floor. The juice spread like blood on the stone floors. Corso Spardini’s dance partner whirled back just quick enough to avoid most of the splash, but not all, because her heels caught in her petticoats and she took a spill, dragging the Duke’s son down with her.

Kyrie stumbled back. One of her lace sleeves was soaked. She covered her mouth.   


“Oh, by the Savior,” she gasped. “I am  _ so  _ sorry.”

She may have even almost meant it.   


And then, the picture of a girl humiliated, she threw her hands over her face and fled down the nearest sidehall. Nero, somehow for once not the focus of the drama at hand, looked around at the bewildered faces, threw out his arms in a half shrug, before making chase.

He found Kyrie out in the courtyard, curled under one of those old lion priestess statues. She was trying to ring the juice out of her sleeve.

“Holy shit, Kyrie,” said Nero. “What was that?”   


Kyrie folded her hands over her knees and pressed her forehead into her voluminous skirts.

He made out her voice around all the satin. “That was me humiliating my brother.”

“Jeez.” Nero crouched next to her. “Hope you don’t mean  _ me _ .”   


Wrong thing to say. Kyrie’s head snapped up. All the color had drained out of her face and it had nothing to do with the cold.

“And what,” she began, an edge of true panic now creeping into her voice, “is  _ that  _ supposed to mean?”   


Fuuuuuuck. Abort, abort. Nero looked around the courtyard, as though the tits-out lioness statue could somehow save him.   


“I just mean -- ah, hell. You heard that crack he made earlier. I’m just saying I’m not. Uh. Your brother. I mean.”

Wrong again. Kyrie’s eyes flashed, wild and furious. “Nero,” she said, uncoiling. “Don’t listen to him. Don’t ever listen to him. You’re family. You belong here.”   


Old issue. Old hurt. He’d really hit a nerve. He hadn’t even been trying. He hadn’t tried in years. Not since the first year he’d come to live with her family, when he’d yelled at her for pitying him, and she’d yelled right back that she didn’t pity him, she liked him, and that those two things weren’t the same at all.

“That’s not what pissed me off,” said Nero. “Not that this is about how I feel about it, anyway. The guy’s a jerk. Credo’s not going to fault you for sticking up for yourself -- which was amazing, by the way.”

“I didn’t do it for myself,” said Kyrie, slumping back against the statue.

Oh.

Nero sighed and let himself thwump against the frostbitten stone. To hell with his uniform, anyway.

“You know,” he said. “When you wanted me to run interference on that jerk, didn’t think you’d have to be the one to defend my honor.”

“Someone ought to.”

“Now, that’s just crazy talk. Since when do I have anything like that?” Nero looked over at her, though. He shot her a crooked smile. He caught her eye and she smiled back, despite everything.   


“Since always,” said Kyrie. “You might be a little rude sometimes…”   
  
“Damn, lay into me why don’t you?” asked Nero, but there wasn’t any heat in it.    


“You’ve always been clear-sighted when it counts. They should see that. I hate when they don’t.”

“They see a little white-haired bastard with no past and no future,” said Nero.   


“Nero--”

“But I shouldn’t have let you have to do all the dirty work,” admitted Nero. “Sorry about that. Guess I really failed running interference on Corso, huh.”   


“Mm. I didn’t warn you to watch out for me,” said Kyrie. The cold wind whistled through the courtyard. Kyrie shivered and edged a little closer to Nero without thinking. “...but it wasn’t the only reason I asked you.”   


“Yeah?”

“I just wanted to go with you.”   


“Seriously?”

“Yes,” said Kyrie. “I always wanted to ask you, but I never thought you’d say yes. I know you find these things silly.”   


Shit. Kyrie shivered again. Nero shrugged out of his uniform coat and put it over her. He didn’t mind the cold nearly as much, anyway. Never had.   


“It’s not silly if it’s important to you,” he said, and since they were making their confessions, he offered up his own: “I don’t mind being family.”

“Really?”

“Haven’t for years. Your parents were always good to me, and Credo’s… Credo. But he’s pretty admirable, yanno? And with you, I just really…” Guess he was going all in on this. Nero rubbed the back of his head. The gel had started to come loose after a few dances. Just as well. He felt more like himself without it. “I don’t want you to see me like a brother.”

“Oh,” said Kyrie, she looked up at him. Somehow, even in the wavering lantern lights, her face managed to glow, gold catching in her eyes and on her lips, and…   


“Nero,” she asked, steeling herself. “How do you want me to see you?”   


Nero couldn’t think of how to answer that, so he put his hand on her shoulder and leaned down. It wasn’t so cold anymore.   


Then he jumped back, alarmed.

“I mean,” he said. “That -- uh, crap. That’s not what I meant, I just--”   


Kyrie tackled him.

* * *

Assaulting a Duke's son, even if he had it coming, was generally frowned upon. Nero didn’t want Kyrie to get in trouble. The next morning he reported in to Credo for the debriefing. He even wore the uniform. Seemed a good a tactic as any. Politics, Kyrie had said, politics.   


“Kyrie says she returned home without incident,” said Credo, by way of an introduction as Nero snapped to attention in front of the desk. There were dark circles under his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. The cup on the desk steamed with a particularly strong coffee. The vigil had been until dawn. Sanctus had gracefully retired into ducal quarters, so generously lent to him by the family, but the knights had remained as his proxies. Credo included.

“Uh, yeah,” said Nero, readying himself. Dancing was like fighting. Politics was like dancing. Nero was fifteen and learning how all of these things worked. “Listen, about that business with the punch bowl…”

“And Corso Spardini delivered about fifty pounds of flowers to the cloisters at nine this morning,” said Credo. “In apology, claims his valet. Do you know anything about this?”

Nero glanced around as though they might have an audience. “Should I know something about this?”

“That is answer enough,” said Credo. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but just a flicker. Nero remembered to breathe. “Your conduct, to my understanding, was adequate. I’ve received no formal complaint, save the usual.”

“Which were?”

“That you scandalized some of the older guests.”

“I do that by existing!”

“Nevertheless,” continued Credo, “I will commend you for your restraint demonstrated. No serious political body has taken offense, and Kyrie was able to enjoy the evening. While I cannot give you formal praise for the latter, the former is certain progress.”

Nero bit the inside of his cheek.   


“I’m not making a habit of this,” he said, at last.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Credo. He pulled out a folder and slid it across the table. It had the Order seal. “You are dismissed to your regular duties. This is your next mission, briefing is enclosed. Read it when you are alone. Don’t burn anything down this time.”

Nero took it.

“That was just the once -- that really it?”   
  
“That’s it,” said Credo. “And Nero?”

“Yeah?”   


Nero paused in the door. Credo gave him that Look. The one where he wanted Nero to Think About Something. Just what was a mystery, but he was sure Nero would have that holy revelation eventually.

“Button your collar next time.”

“Whatever you say,  _ sir _ .”   


It wasn’t until he got back to his cell and dunked his head in the sink that he noticed the gigantic hickie, loud and clear on the pale skin under his jaw.

One revelation, coming up.

“Oh,” said Nero. If Credo had let him live, it was only so that he could die inside right then and there, as he commended himself to the Savior’s mercy. “Oh,  _ shit _ .”

Happy Nevantide. 

**Author's Note:**

> Muun, why did you write a 7K story about Nero and Kyrie growing up in Fortuna?
> 
> I have needs, all right.


End file.
